Ryan's First Date, Part 2

Before Ryan even reached the porch steps, Theresa flung open her front door and skipped outside. "You're here!" she cried. Then, suddenly self-conscious, she clapped a hand over her mouth and shrank back, blushing.

At the sight of her, Ryan released the breath he had been holding. He forgot Trey and Dawn, the chaos of feelings they churned up inside him, forgot the dangerously shifting shape of his family, forgot even his own doubts about dating a friend. Backlit by the glow of her living room, Theresa appeared eager and shy, but she wasn't quite smiling.

Ryan wanted to make her smile.

He ducked his head, lifted it sideways in greeting. "Hey," he said, almost gently. "You look . . . really good."

"You think so?" Instantly, Theresa's face sparkled, and she spun in place. Glossy black curls spiraled on her bare shoulders, and the short skirt of her dress, a series of sea green ruffles edged in white lace, foamed around her thighs.

Watching her, Ryan felt strange—dizzy and self-assured at the same time. "Oh yeah," he confirmed. "You're really pretty, Theresa."

"You too," she replied, and then laughed at her own words. "I mean, you look good too, Ryan. I like your shirt." She touched one tentative finger to his top button and started to say something else when Turo appeared behind her in the doorway, swinging his car keys.

"You guys ready?"

Ryan nodded. Confidently, even though he'd never done it before, even though he realized what it would signal, he took Theresa's hand. She exhaled a tiny bubble of sound, between a gasp and a giggle, and laced her fingers through his.

Turo strode in front of them, talking over his shoulder. "You can ride in front with me, Theresa."

"I know I can. But I won't," Theresa retorted impudently. "Ryan and I are gonna sit in back together. You can be our, whaddya call it, our chauffeur tonight."

Turo wheeled around, caught sight of their clasped hands, and scowled as he unlocked the car. "Don't even think of trying something back there, Atwood," he warned.

"Ooh, my big brother," Theresa teased. Behind Turo's back, she rolled her eyes and edged closer to Ryan. "He's so tough and scary. Are you scared, Ryan?"

Her mouth almost touched his ear, and he could feel her breath, smell the faint vanilla and spice of her skin. "Oh yeah," he murmured, his voice husky, the words verging on truth. He slid into the backseat beside Theresa, their hands still linked in the small space between them. "Yeah, I'm really scared."

Throughout the drive, Turo kept up a steady lecture: don't get in trouble, don't embarrass him in front of his friends and his girlfriend's family, don't forget Theresa's curfew, don't keep him waiting when it was time for him to drive them back home. At every stoplight, he swiveled around to check that Theresa and Ryan were listening. They always nodded, expressions sober, but as soon as Turo turned back to the road, their eyes and smiles met, exchanging secret laughter.

"Have you ever been to a Quinceanera, Ryan?" Theresa asked.

He shook his head, fascinated by the way her earrings winked at him every time she moved. "Have you?"

"Three," she replied, her face shining with memory. "All cousins. For them, we went to Mass too—there's always a Mass in the girl's honor—but this is just the party. Oh, Ryan, wait till you see. Camille will be dressed like a bride or a princess, and there will be so much food and music and . . ." Theresa broke off, inhaling sharply. "Ryan, look!" She grasped his hand tighter, and pointed out the window.

They were still two blocks away, but Camille's house was already visible, lit by Japanese lanterns looped along the porch and luminaria that lined the sidewalk. Pink and white flower garlands circled every tree trunk, and pink and white balloons bobbed above the fence posts.

"It's so beautiful," Theresa breathed, dazzled. When she leaned over Ryan's lap for a better look, her hair fell forward, brushing his cheek. "It's just like a picture in a fairytale." She blushed, embarrassed by her own enthusiasm, but as soon as the car stopped she fumbled for the door handle.

Ryan cleared his throat. "Wait," he urged, putting a hand on her wrist.

Confused, Theresa frowned slightly, but she stayed where she was, watching as he got out. Ryan crossed behind the car, opened her door, and, smiling shyly, extended his hand.

Theresa's eyes widened with delight. She inclined her head, delicately placed her palm in his and stepped out of the car. "Gracias, Ryan," she said. Behind her Turo laughed, and she turned to scowl at him, lifting her chin. "Some people have manners, mi hermano," she admonished sternly before reassuring Ryan, "Just ignore him. He is so ignorant."

Trey's voice drifted out the darkness across the street. "Hey, smooth move there, Ry," he called as he crossed to meet them, trailed by a girl teetering on heels that threatened to pitch her to the ground. "Been watching fucking PBS or something again? You know, this is still Chino, not faggy London, England." He lisped the last words in a simpering falsetto.

Ryan flinched as though he had been slapped. Abruptly, he felt both childish and pretentious. Just once, alone in the house, he had flipped idly through different channels, and stopped on one quieter than all the rest. When Trey came home, he caught Ryan immersed in a show set on a British estate, where people spoke in clipped, cultured voices, sipped their drinks, and somehow internalized all of their pain.

Trey immediately added that moment to his arsenal. He had so many weapons, Ryan realized, and he aimed his blows with such lethal accuracy, leaving his opponents gasping for breath.

No wonder Trey won almost all of his fights.

Silently, Ryan started to pull his hand out of Theresa's, but she wouldn't let go. "No," she whispered. "It's just Trey being stupid. Don't let him spoil everything, Ryan. Please?"

Ryan wavered, but before he could decide what to do, Turo took charge. "Can it, Trey," he ordered flatly. "This is my girlfriend's Quinceanera. You fuck it up for her, I guarantee I will kick your sorry ass."

"Chill, Turo," Trey laughed. "I was just messin' with little bro, here. We're cool, aren't we, Ry?" He grinned, raising his eyebrows, and lifted his hands in a placating wave.

The gesture drew Ryan's eyes to the shirt Trey was wearing. It was clearly cheap, wrinkled and tired. Not like Ryan's own, the new one that kept him from looking like a lost sixth-grader, the one Trey, unasked, had provided for him. Ryan wondered, briefly, why Trey hadn't bothered to steal a shirt for himself. He swallowed, finally finding his voice. "Sure, Trey. We're cool," he conceded diffidently.

"Now see," Trey announced. "Me and Ry, we're blood. We understand each other." He snapped his fingers, and his date scurried to his side. Trey slung an arm around her shoulders, letting his hand dangle close to her breast. "Okay, let's get to this damn party and have us some fun."

Only the party really wasn't much fun, Ryan thought. He and Theresa didn't seem to fit in anywhere. Inside the house, Camille's extended family was celebrating in loud bursts of laughter and Spanish. Little kids crawled under the tables, or rested on the swell of their mothers' hips, while older children roughhoused, heedless of their party own clothes or people in their way.

Theresa wrinkled her nose distastefully when a boy careened off her as she and Ryan picked their way through the dining room. "Kids," she scoffed, sounding as though she'd just turned twenty-five. "Let's go outside, Ryan."

But outside was no better. The backyard was teeming with Camille's friends, all of them older, most of them dancing or drinking, none of them interested in talking to anyone still in middle school. For a few minutes, Ryan and Theresa lingered on the fringes, watching Camille sway through the crowd in her enormous hoop skirt, with Turo trailing possessively behind her. In the distance, Ryan spotted Trey and his date disappearing behind a thick cluster of bushes. Maybe, he thought ruefully, that was how his brother's shirt got so creased, why Trey didn't bother to wear something good.

Theresa swished her skirt, humming, but the glad excitement drained slowly from her eyes as she and Ryan stood on the sidelines. Another song began, and she glanced over at him, her expression wistful.

"Do you . . .?" Ryan stopped, took a deep breath, and forced himself to finish. "You wanna dance, Theresa?"

"Really? You'll dance with me, Ryan?" she asked, twirling around in surprise.

Ryan shrugged. "If you want." He raised his arms, dropped them, and raised them again, peering furtively at other couples to check where his hands were supposed to go.

Theresa hesitated and then shook her head. "No, Ryan. Let's not," she said. "I mean, thank you for offering, but I want to do something you want to do too." She sighed, and whispered apologetically, "I'm sorry. I thought this would be more fun."

A light breeze lifted her curls. One of them caught on her left earring, and Ryan reached over to free it, his finger skimming the edge of Theresa's cheek. "We could go for a walk," he suggested, his voice cracking just a little.

Theresa ducked her head and blushed again. "A walk will be nice. I'd like that."

They started out of the yard, their hands brushing as they moved. Ryan paused when Trey and his date stumbled out of the bushes, leaning against each other heavily for support.

"Hey, Ry. What up, dog?" Trey grinned. "You and Teesha . . . Theresa . . . having a good time?"

Ryan's eyes narrowed speculatively. "We're going for a walk," he replied. "Would you let Turo know? We won't be gone long."

Trey nodded, ticking the points off on his fingers. "Walk. Turo. Long. Got it," he promised.

"Not long," Ryan corrected. "Are you okay, Trey?"

"Good question," Trey laughed. "Hey, Jannette, how the hell am I?"

Trey's girlfriend nuzzled her face into his neck. "Oh, you're real good, babe," she purred, and licked the edge of his ear.

"Yeah, see, that's what I thought." Trey nudged Ryan's side hard, almost knocking him over. "Fucking Atwood rep, I'm tellin' you, Ry . . . Hey, you know, there's a park about five blocks from here. I mean, since you're goin' for a . . . what did you call it? A walk? Oh . . . and here." He thrust his own glass at Ryan, its contents sloshing dangerously close to the top. "Drink up, little brother," he challenged. "On me, one for the fucking road."

Ryan heard Jannette giggle and Theresa make a small, scornful sound. "Shit, Trey," he muttered uneasily. He held the glass for a moment, then drained it in one swallow. The taste was sharper than he had expected, and it scalded his throat. Somehow he managed not to choke, but his voice was ragged when he spoke again. "Just tell Turo where we went, okay?"

Trey saluted. "Got it, LB."

Ryan tossed the glass back and deliberately turned away, taking Theresa's hand. They walked half a block in silence before she burst out, "Your brother is such an ass, Ryan."

"Not always," he claimed, fingering the hem of his shirt.

"Pretty much always," Theresa argued. "He likes messing with you, Ryan. You shouldn't let him get to you like that."

"It's just . . ." Ryan couldn't find words to explain and the prospect of trying made him ache with exhaustion. "He's my brother," he finished helplessly.

Theresa pursed her lips and sighed, examining Ryan's face in the watery lamplight. "I know," she conceded. "But as far as I'm concerned, tonight he is nobody."

Ryan's mouth curved into a quick, grateful grin. "Okay," he agreed, nodding. "Trey is nobody."

"Trey?" Theresa's eyes widened innocently. "Trey who?"

Smiling at each other, Ryan and Theresa walked in companionable silence until they reached the entrance to the park. It loomed in front of them unexpectedly, a destination they never chose. In the moonlight, the place appeared to be deserted, like a private refuge, its emptiness inviting and forbidding at the same time. Ryan and Theresa became uncomfortably conscious of their clasped hands, the warm, throbbing contact points between their fingers. They had to let go.

Ryan inhaled sharply and blew the air out through his teeth. "We could just . . . go back to the party, I guess," he suggested.

"Uh-huh," Theresa murmured uncertainly. She glanced at the playground area with its familiar equipment, thought for a minute, and then darted a mischievous grin in Ryan's direction. "Or . . . we could go on the swings."

Ryan peered at her dubiously. "You're all dressed up, Theresa."

"So? Clothes can be washed," she caroled, skipping down the path. "Come on, Ryan. It will be fun. Better than dancing, right?"

Behind Theresa's back, Ryan grimaced a little. The swings were for little kids, unless you used them to fly, launch yourself into space and a dizzy freefall. Ryan needed some outlet for his restless energy, but he wasn't sure he was ready for that. "Want me to push you, Theresa?" he asked.

"No, silly." She caught his elbow, pulling him along with her, and Ryan dragged his feet a little just to make her tug harder. "I want you to ride next to me."

"We're too old for this," he protested, even as he wedged himself into the curved plastic seat.

Theresa scooted back, body arced and poised for take-off. "Not me. But you are maybe," she teased. "You're too old for everything sometimes, Ryan Atwood. Tell you what--just pretend you're Trey's mental age. Oops—I forgot! He doesn't exist!"

She swooped past Ryan, laughing, and he pushed back, using his arms to pump and catch up. Their rhythm didn't match; Theresa's swing climbed as his was descending, and they only passed each other at the bottom. There was no way to talk. Words tumbled in the air between them, and they could only catch half of what each other was saying, so they gave up after a few scrambled words.

That was all right with Ryan. He enjoyed the random sounds that rushed past as he swung—car horns, dogs barking in the distance, and snatches of whatever song Theresa had begun to sing.

Ryan watched her fly, higher and higher, and he knew what she was going to do. What she always did—soar until she hit the highest point, and then throw herself forward, slicing through the air and down to the ground while her swing, abruptly empty, whipped itself back and forth in an abandoned frenzy.

"Theresa," Ryan said. On an impulse he couldn't explain, he stretched an arm to her swing and caught the chain nearest him, breaking her momentum. Theresa's mouth opened indignantly. Then she stuck her tongue out, her eyes flashing, and touched her toes to the ground. Leaping lightly off the swing, she began dancing backwards, beckoning to Ryan while she laughed, her tongue still visible, pink between her teeth.

"You do it, Ryan," Theresa called. "Come on! I dare you, Ryan. I dare you! Ry-an." She swiveled her hips invitingly, and all the little ruffles lifted and shimmered like waves in the moonlight.

Once, twice, three more times, Ryan's swing arced while he debated and Theresa made a song out of his name. Then, not quite at the peak, but almost, he closed his eyes and threw himself forward into the air. He landed breathless in a crouch, started to get up, then collapsed face down on the grass.

Theresa's teasing litany broke off in a gasp. "Ryan?" she cried. "Ryan!" She skidded to her knees beside him, her voice shaking, her fingers barely touching his hair. "Are you all right? Oh Dios, Ryan, please be all right." She made the Sign of the Cross, murmured a quick prayer. Ryan groaned. "Say something!" Theresa begged.

Ryan turned his head slowly and fluttered one eye open, swallowing, while Theresa waited anxiously, clutching his hand.

"Got you," he laughed.

"Oh!" Theresa fell back on her heels. "You're not hurt?"

"Nope," Ryan grinned. He sat up, brushing off his shirt and pants.

Theresa's eyes narrowed to slits and she blew out a long, indignant breath. "You will be, Ryan Atwood," she warned. "Scaring me like that. That is not funny."

She swatted his thigh and lifted her hand to do it again, but Ryan caught her wrist. Instantly, Theresa stopped moving. For a few moments Ryan simply looked at her, his eyes slowly losing their laughter, growing dark and intense. He loosened his hold, giving Theresa a chance to move away. When she didn't, when she bit her lip and swayed toward him, Ryan cupped the back of her head. His fingers slid under her hair, guiding her mouth to his.

It wasn't the way he kissed Mica at all.

With Theresa, the touch of his lips was gentle, a kind of question. He pulled back, waiting for her answer and Theresa gave a tiny nod, winding her arms around his neck. Ryan kissed her again, more confidently. Her lips parted under his, and his tongue slid slightly inside her mouth, running over her teeth once before he drew back. He bowed his head, resting his forehead softly against hers.

Theresa's breath tickled Ryan's chin as she made a small sound, almost like the mew of a kitten. "I like that," she whispered.

"Yeah? Good." Ryan leaned back, eyes shadowed by his bangs. "We can do it again," he offered, and then added, because this was Theresa, and so much was at stake, "But we don't have to right now. We could . . . do something else."

"What?" Theresa asked, a little breathlessly.

Ryan scanned the park, desperate for an idea that would prove nothing essential had changed. "I don't know," he confessed ruefully. He stretched out flat on the ground, crossing his hands behind his head. "Look at the stars for a while maybe? Find the constellations?"

Obediently, Theresa lifted her face. "What stars?" she demanded, frowning at the blank sky.

"Yeah, I guess there aren't any tonight. I don't know," Ryan repeated. "What do you want to do?"

Theresa thought for a moment, drawing aimless patterns in the grass and then smiled triumphantly. She grabbed Ryan's hand, holding it in her lap, and began to trace shapes on his palm with a single finger.

"What are you doing?" Ryan asked, pulling away in confusion.

"Being Annie Sullivan."

"Who?"

"Annie Sullivan. In The Miracle Worker. We're reading the play in English class, Ryan." Theresa shook her head at the sight of his blank expression. "Don't you ever pay attention?"

Ryan shrugged. "Sometimes," he answered resentfully. He remembered the teacher's enthusiastic introduction, how she claimed that the play was a true story, heartwarming and inspirational, but he hadn't listened or read a word after that. The Miracle Worker. That title alone made him retreat, aching and angry inside, because if Ryan knew one thing absolutely, it was that nobody could work miracles. Not in real life.

Theresa pulled him up to a sitting position. "Hand," she demanded imperiously. Ryan blinked, still puzzled. "Give me your hand," she clarified. "I'm going to show you how Annie Sullivan taught Helen Keller to communicate."

"Now?" Ryan asked. Theresa wore her do-what-I-say look and Ryan suddenly found it endearing, amusing and hard to resist. He wanted to kiss her again.

"Yes, now," Theresa insisted. "You'll like it, Ryan, I promise." Just as he had done when helping her out of the car, Theresa extended her hand, waiting until Ryan placed his own on top. Then she turned it over so his palm faced up. "Annie spelled words into Helen's hand, one letter at a time," Theresa said, demonstrating. "Just like this. Close your eyes, Ryan."

Her finger traced precise lines lightly on Ryan's skin. It tickled, and then it didn't.

"What word was that?" she asked.

Ryan's eyes fluttered open and he looked up from under his lashes. All he understood was the sensation, and he really, really, wanted Theresa to do it again. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Concentrate," Theresa ordered, and just for a moment, Ryan could imagine her some day in the future, supervising homework at a kitchen table the way he had seen mothers do on TV shows. He wondered, with a pang of lonely foreboding, if he would still know Theresa then. "Earth to Ryan," she scolded, noticing his distraction.

"Sorry," he murmured. "What?"

"Close your eyes again, and pay attention."

Slowly, deliberately, she began printing into Ryan's hand. He sat very still, forcing himself to focus.

"Water?" he asked, when she finished. "Why water, Theresa?"

"It's from the play," she reminded him. "Remember? What Annie spells to Helen in the end?"

Ryan bit his lip, because he didn't remember, but now he thought he might want to know. "Do another one," he urged. "A Theresa word."

She blew on his palm first. "I'm erasing," she explained pertly in answer to his quizzical smile. "All right. You ready?"

Ryan nodded, closed his eyes. He felt an "a", then an "l", and a "w", and another "a." The word formed in his mind, but he let Theresa finish before he said it out loud.

"Always?"

"Mm-hmm," she murmured. "But I'm not done. Just wait." She traced one more line, and then Ryan felt her grip tighten convulsively. "Oh shit," she whispered.

His eyes flew open. Theresa was staring over his shoulder, scrambling to her feet, pulling Ryan with her.

Alarmed, Ryan turned to look behind him. "What's wrong?" he asked, and then breathed, "Oh fuck," when he saw the answer.

Three boys, all of them twice his size and wearing gang colors, were strolling toward them, and even from a distance, Ryan could see their eyes locked on Theresa. He scanned the park for somebody else, anyone who might help, but the place still appeared abandoned.

"Come on," Ryan muttered. He grabbed Theresa's elbow, steering her toward the street and the lit windows of a convenience store, careful to keep her body shielded by his.

Somebody whistled, and a sneering voice called, "Yo, Chica! What's your hurry, babydoll? Stay—play with us." There was a snort of laughter. "Hey, if you want, your little friend can stay too. Why not? I bet we can think up some games for him."

Ryan heard a wet sucking noise behind him and he could guess the gesture that accompanied it. Two spots of color burned high on his cheeks and his muscles clenched. Despite himself, he started to turn.

Theresa pressed closer against his side. "Ryan," she whispered urgently. "Don't."

She threaded her fingers through his, squeezing tight enough to make Ryan wince. He nodded tersely, worked to control his hectic breathing, to ignore the catcalls and taunts that grew louder and nearer with every step. All one part of him wanted was to get Theresa safely across the street, into the store.

But the other part of him wanted to fight.

If only he were bigger.

Or stronger.

Or older.

Or Trey.

If he were Trey, Ryan thought with complete certainty, he could take all three of them.

"Hey, now you're not bein' nice, leavin' when I'm tryin' to make friends," the voice behind them complained.

Close. It was definitely getting too close.

"You're hurtin' my feelings. And I'm a sensitive guy—ain't I a sensitive guy, 'Los? Why you wanna hurt my feelings, huh, bitch?"

A hand swiped the air just behind Theresa. Instantly, Ryan swung around, blocking her from sight. "Don't you touch her," he snarled. "And don't call her that."

"Ryan . . ." Theresa locked her fingers through his belt loops. She stumbled backwards, trying to tug him with her, but except for his fists flexing by his sides, Ryan didn't move.

"Ooh, listen to the little boy, defendin' his lady. That's real sweet. Except, how you know you ain't the bitch I'm talkin' to, huh, little boy?"

Dimly, Ryan heard the sound of a car pulling over to the curb, and a door opening. "Just. Back. Off," he gritted deliberately.

"Seems like I shoulda heard an 'or else' in there. You got an 'or else' for me, hijo de puta?"

"I got one for you, fucker," Trey's voice announced. "Hell, I got as many as you want." Ryan darted a startled glance to the side, holding his ground. His brother was sliding out of a battered convertible, looking indolent, almost bored, as he flicked a half-smoked cigarette to the ground.

The guy in front cracked his knuckles. "This ain't your business, Atwood," he warned.

"No?" Trey laughed and picked up a fallen tree branch, slicing it casually through the air. "You are one ignorant shit. Well, three ignorant shits, I guess. But hell, who's counting, right?" Abruptly, he stabbed the branch into the chest of the nearest boy. "My brother and his girlfriend are gonna leave with us now. You got any problem with them doin' that, Rico?"

Rico's eyes raked Ryan, who lifted his chin and glared back defiantly.

"This kid's your brother, Atwood? How I'm supposed to know that? What the fuck is he doin' on this side of town?"

"I don't know," Trey drawled, feigning ignorance. He inclined his head toward Ryan. "What the fuck are you doin' on this side of town, Ry?"

"Whatever the hell I feel like doing," Ryan replied coolly. Behind him, he could feel Theresa press her palm against his back, but he couldn't tell whether the touch meant approval or admonition.

Trey nodded at Ryan, lips pulled down in an overturned smirk, and withdrew the tree branch a scant inch. "Got any more fucking questions, Rico? 'Cause I'm sure Ry and me can answer them. Can't we, bro?"

"Oh yeah," Ryan said deliberately. His voice vibrated with some dark undercurrent, almost as if he would welcome the challenge.

Rico's gaze measured Ryan, moved back to Trey. "Fuck this," he sneered finally, shaking his head. He signaled his companions and muttered something in Spanish. Without another word they all pivoted, sauntering off in the other direction as if they had just remembered something better that they had to do.

Trey gave a whoop of triumph and chucked the tree branch back to the ground. "'Where the fuck did that come from--Whatever the hell I feel like doin'?" he caroled, cuffing Ryan's cheek affectionately. "Shit, LB, guess you must be an Atwood after all."

Ryan's face burned. "Of course I'm an Atwood," he mumbled. "Who else would I be?" All his bravado drained away, and he felt out of focus, empty and strangely ashamed. He shifted, trying to regain his balance. Theresa slid next to him, her fingers brushing his, and he took her hand gratefully. "Are you okay?" he asked. He sketched a tentative smile that did not quite reach his eyes, searching her face for something, some reassurance, or maybe just recognition.

"I'm fine," Theresa answered. She threw back her head, her chin lifting fiercely, daring Ryan to doubt her.

Relieved, Ryan nodded and turned back to his brother. "Thanks, Trey," he said diffidently. For, you know, having my back."

"Yeah, well." Trey stretched, then rolled his shoulders in a casual shrug. "Gotta do for a brother, right, Ry?" He flicked a finger under Ryan's collar and added with a sly grin, "Besides, didn't want you to mess up that shirt . . . Okay, let's get going. Unless, I don't know, you and your girlfriend got some unfinished business here?"

"Trey--" Ryan began, but Theresa interrupted.

"Actually, we do," she declared and wrapped her arms around Ryan's neck. Before he could move or ask questions or react at all really, she kissed him. Ryan's lips parted in surprise, opened wider when Theresa's tongue darted in and shyly touched his. Unsure quite what to do next, she slid her mouth down to his ear. "You said we could do it again," she whispered playfully. "I thought now would be good."

Ryan laughed, and for at least that one moment, the world fixed itself with perfect clarity.

"Yeah," he agreed. "Now is good."